


White Lilies

by sisaboo



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, I don't think this will be finished sorry!, Incomplete, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sisaboo/pseuds/sisaboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirchstein struggles to cope without his long term partner, Marco Bodt.<br/>Warning for major angst and heartbreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jean is a shut-in.
> 
>  
> 
> NB: This is my first fic! In the interests of full disclosure I have no experience of depression, nor of bereavement. I hope I treat the subjects with tact but if not please let me know. Thank you!  
> \-------------------------------

 

           I looked over at Marco with a smile. We were sat in his Honda on a warm Summer's afternoon, heading to the beach and happy to be in each other's company.

My eyes flicked to the road as the traffic signal changed to green, and I heard him giggle at something as he pressed the accelerator. Probably nothing. He would laugh at anything, my happy, happy Marco.

It was an anniversary of sorts - the anniversary of when I finally got my shit together and kissed the big dummy. He had been surprised - I had denied it for a whole year of college that I had feelings for my (male) roommate - but he had laughed as he kissed me back. We'd been together ever since.

I had loved that big dork for five years, but I loved him even more every day. I was thinking about the apartment we had bought together, and the ring sitting hidden away in my jeans pocket, ready to spring on him when he was least expecting it. Hopefully.

I reached my hand over and rested it on his leg grinning. It was pure bliss.

"I love you, Freckles" I said, barely able to stop myself from asking him right then and there. The afternoon sunshine shone through the windshield, illuminating his features. His brown eyes glowed and his freckles, those beautiful 'blemishes', were bright upon his warm skin. I knew every single one of them.

"I know," he said with a smile, glancing back at me. That was all that needed to be said.

And that's when the truck hit us.

 

***

 

I woke up with a gasp, sweating and dazed. "Marco!" I called out, panicked, the covers twisted around me, trapping me. "M-Marco!"

"I'm here," I heard him say, quietly. "It's ok, we're alright."

But as I looked to the side of me, my heart rate slowing as I searched for him, there was just an empty bed. Unslept in since June.

It was just a dream. Just a cruel joke played by my mind.

Marco wasn't there.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

I had lived without him for five months now. Though 'lived' isn't exactly the right word... _existed,_ perhaps _._

Putting one foot in front of the other.  Trying not to stumble.

But it was hard. It was hard as hell.

 

It happened nearly every morning and it never got easier. I would wake up, calling for him, and realise he wasn't there. That he never would be there again. Waves of pain and guilt and misery would wash over me, tearing at my heart and crushing my stomach like paper in its hands. Then I would sit up, get up out of bed, put on some clothes, make breakfast... exist.

I was getting better at it. It used to be that I wouldn't even get up. Days and nights would form into one. The week... the week that it happened, I don't think I moved except to go to the bathroom. I had felt numb, sick, weak, empty. Obsolete. Nowadays I'm better at pushing those feelings back a little, just enough to feed myself and not break down into a mess of tears and anger every moment of the day. I'm not trying to make myself sound pathetic, but there's no way I can brush over it.

Losing him was like a slow torture.

They say there are five stages to the grief process, but I'm going to have to disagree with whoever 'they' are. To me it felt like all of the stages happened at once and never turned off. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. I switched between them at a moment's notice. But I was growing more adept at doing things that would help me pass the day.

Today, and most days, I made scrambled eggs for breakfast. I knew they were his favourite. As I made them, I would talk to our empty apartment, pretending. I would ask him how he liked his eggs, and always knew the answer. Perhaps I would commentate on my process, cursing when I burned the food, telling him he was always the better cook. I must have looked crazy from the outside. Maybe I was. But pretending he was with me brought me a little bit of solace, and maybe the world didn't hurt quite as badly.

I sat down with my eggs, putting a second plate next to me on the sofa. I told myself I always make too much just in case I ruin some. I don't acknowledge who the second plate is for.

Flicking the TV on, I sat in my own world, not paying a single bit of attention to it. It's a low drone to drown out the silence. Sometimes I curled up here at night and left the TV on while I slept a dreamless sleep.

I sat there for hours, I think. It must have been hours. A knock woke me from my reverie and I sat up, alarmed. Staring at the door, my breath started to grow heavier, and my heart began to hammer. I didn't want to answer it. No. Didn't wanna.

"Jean?" I heard through the door of my apartment, preceded by the rapping of knuckles on the hard wood.

"Jean, it's Reiner... you were supposed to call..."

Shit. Reiner had made me promise to call him. I hadn't seen him face to face for at least a month. I hadn't really seen anybody. So he called me instead, maybe once or twice a week. Sometimes I wouldn't say anything at all. I'd listen to him speak, and he'd carry on without my replies. He knew about my good days and my bad days. Sometimes he would simply call to tell me to feed myself. I needed that. But he'd been getting increasingly worried about me recently. It had been five months, after all. Maybe I was supposed to be married off to someone else by now, living in a big house by the sea, all smiles and no cares. Who knows, but that wasn't going to be me. That was never going to be me.

"I'm here to pick you up," came Reiner's voice again. Shit. Shit. I was supposed to be going to his and Bert's for dinner today. Was it already December? Fucking goddamn shit.

I stayed quiet.

"Jean..." I heard him sigh. "Please, we're worried about you... come out. It must stink in there with you cooped up all day. Come and get some fresh air."

I stood up at that point, wanting to placate him, wanting to tell him I was ok even though I wasn't, wanting to stop him from worrying about me so much. I padded softly to the door, one step at a time. I hoped he couldn't hear me. It was slow.

"Come on... ok, you don't have to come for dinner. Maybe just come for a walk with me and we'll talk."

He was trying so hard, and I wanted to do as he asked. I really did.

"Just... just open the door, Jean. I can come in and we can have some coffee,"

I reached my hand out, towards the locks keeping him out. Keeping everyone out.

"Please Jean... just open the door..."

I stopped.

It was a bad day.

After a while, he stopped knocking and left, promising to call me later.

I stood there by the door for an age, frustrated, not moving. Just thinking about Reiner and his voice and his dinner and... the way he spoke. Like I was damaged, delicate, fragile. It wasn't his usual tone. We used to call each other names and swear, insult each other until Marco would scold me or Bert would grow nervous. Now he tiptoed. Now he cared.

Now he made me angry.

I grabbed the uneaten plate of eggs from the sofa and screamed, throwing it so that it smashed against the door. In a fit I knocked over the coffee table, kicking the armchair and yelping at the shooting pain in my toe. Good. I wanted it to hurt.

I ran into the bedroom and threw off the covers, scattering pillows everywhere. This was where Marco should sleep. This is where Marco should be.

I yelled some more, the noise coming out more carnal than before, ripping the nearest cushions in half, tears starting to form around my eyes. Feathers fell all around me and I looked at what I'd done.

This is where Marco should sleep.

And I had ruined the bed. I scrambled quickly, finding his pillows on the floor and trying to piece them back together. I frantically put the duvet back on, stroking it down in a fever. Shit. Shit. Motherfucking shit goddamn FUCKING SHIT. FUCK.

I slumped down next to the bed, my head against the mattress, and cried. It was a desperate cry, one that often followed a fit of rage, one that existed just to let out some of my pain and my frustration. I wailed, loudly, grabbing at my shirt and my hair, collapsing sideways onto the floor. Marco... why did he have to go away from me? It just wasn't fair. I pounded my fists and stamped my feet on the hard wood floor. I felt like utter shit right then, remembering the way I had ignored my friend at the door, my friend who cared enough to put up with my shitty behaviour and my mood swings and who I had gotten so mad at that I had torn up my apartment. Marco wouldn't like seeing it like this. Our apartment that we made together. Where we picked all our furniture together. Where we cooked and ate and slept together.

But now there was just me.

After a while, all cried out, I fell asleep right there on the floor, surrounded by the feathers of our pillows, wanting to be numb again.

Another day had passed and I'd barely made it through. I was proud of myself.

Tomorrow it would start again.


End file.
